Vagina Buffet

In celebrity vagina news...

I love Kelly Osbourne. I watch her on Fashion Police every week, I follow her on Twitter and I want her fabulous purple hair! She’s been hit with almost everything life could possibly throw at her, yet she’s come out the other side, an inspiration. She’ll tell you she’s not perfect, but heck, who is?!

She recently attended the Cosmopolitan Ultimate Women Awards and when asked what the best thing about being a woman was, she said, "The best thing about being a woman is having a vagina."

Well Kelly, I agree. 

Vaginas are flippin’ amazing and so are the women attached to them. We orgasm, we bleed, we push babies out of them. Vaginas are as individual as snowflakes and it’s what sets us apart from our male friends. Kelly, you are equally amazing and, if you’re up for it, I’d love to have you appear on my celebrity vagina page. Just have your people, contact my people. 

In other celebrity vagina news, Anne Hathaway has been photographed flashing her bush-free muff (à la Britney Spears). She was attending the New York premiere of Les Misérables when her super-tight Tom Ford dress rode up and revealed she wasn’t wearing any panties (you can see the uncensored photo here). Now I’m totally up for not wearing underwear to bed, I like to let my little lady friend ‘breathe,’ but to not wear nickers to a public event seems a little crazy to me.

I’ve been experiencing light bladder leakage lately and a big cough or a huge sneeze ultimately leads to a spot of urine in my undies. So there’s just no way I would go out, especially in a designer dress, without underwear. All I can say is, Anne, you must have a great pelvic floor!

Until next time, keep your undies on and your legs closed. SJx 

s_bukley / Shutterstock.com

A finer vagina

This, is my vagina. Not my actual vagina, but artwork I made by painting my lady bits and squishing it onto an A4 piece of paper. I made the art by bending the paper over the edge of the bathtub, squatting over the top of it and pressing my vagina onto the paper. It was a gift for my husband’s 31^st birthday and he loved it. But before you think, ‘Wow, what a brilliant idea, I’m going to try this at home.’ Stop. Four visits to my GP, two major gynaecological surgeries and many embarrassing moments is what followed on from my evening with the water paints.  

If you’ve read my book, you’ll know the story intimately.

I really wanted to post an actual photo of my vagina taken by a professional photographer, but Mikey said he would divorce me if I showed the world my vag. So this is the compromise. You can see that I have pubic hair, a clitoris, labia minor and labia majora, but apart from that, it really just looks like a Rorschach Inkblot Test.

So why do I want to show you my vagina? I’m totally alarmed by the amount of women considering (and having) labiaplasty. Yearning for a ‘designer vagina’ seems to be on the rise, and shockingly, girls as young as 9 are asking for it. This, to me, is utter craziness. I’m not completely against plastic surgery of any kind, but if you are altering a part of your body because you think you’re not somehow normal, I urge you to reconsider.

As women, we see each other’s breast on a regular basis, but to see another woman’s vagina is no easy task. You need to be sitting, without underwear, with your legs apart – not your everyday scenario. I originally had my vagina photographed to be included in my book, but it wasn’t going to work unless I had other women’s vaginas to demonstrate just how different they all are. I had trouble finding ‘models’ and I took the decision to include illustrations instead.

One day, I would really love to show you actual photos of real women, with un-photo shopped vulvas.      

So ladies, please, if you’re considering surgery, don’t consult a soft porn mag. Talk with someone like me, or your GP, who has seen hundreds of vaginas. We will tell you they come in all shapes and sizes. They are as individual as you are and we need to stop waging war on our own bodies.

I’m all about sharing. If by seeing my vagina will make you feel better, email me and I’ll send you my photo. Genuine requests only (not freaky guys searching the web for a bit of fanny action!).

Until next time, share your stories, love your bits and don’t ever, ever put paints near your lady garden, trust me on this one! SJ x  

Poo Switch-a-roo

This morning, I went to my GP with some health concerns. Nothing major, but as I'm thinking of joining the gym, I wanted to make sure I was in tip-top condition. She gave me a quick examination in the surgery, then sent me away for some blood tests and a stool sample. 

Before I went for my tests, I stopped off for a quick bite to eat with my lovely friend Alana.

Over a tuna Turkish roll, I was telling her how my GP wants me to give her a stool sample. Alana's response was "I bet you get a poo story out of this!"

"How on earth would I get a poo story from collecting a poo specimen jar?" I thought. We finished lunch, said goodbye and I drove to the nearest pathology centre.

I walked in and the phlebotomist lady took my details. She asked me where my stool sample was and I explained that I had only just seen my Doctor and I had to collect a specimen jar before providing the actual specimen. She got a jar from the supply cupboard and left it on the front desk for me to take home.

She then led me into the consultation room and began to withdraw blood from my veins. I asked her how her day was and I unleashed a beast! She hadn't had lunch, her son was bashed in a pub Friday night, her daughter-in-law fell off a balcony and broke her nose, they spent 6 hours in the ER and she shouldn't have been at work because her grandson needed looking after. Poor love was almost in tears telling me. I wished there was something I could do to cheer her up. 

She placed a band-aid on my arm and walked me to the front desk. I thanked her for the painless procedure and headed out the door. I quickly remembered I left my specimen jar on the front desk, so I raced back to get it. Heading back towards the door, the phlebotomist lady screamed at me to stop. While we were in the room extracting blood, another person had called in to drop-off their poo specimen and had placed it on the desk, right next to my empty brown jar. In my rush to get home, I had picked up the specimen jar with the other persons poo sample!! O.M.G. I was heading home with someone else’s shit in my handbag! Mortifying yet hilarious. 

The phlebotomist lady checked the specimen jars and checked them again. She was almost on the floor laughing at what had just happened and said it was the funniest thing she’s ever seen in all her years in pathology. I’m glad she got a laugh, and the people in the waiting room too. Now everyone knows I’m submitting a stool sample tomorrow – let’s hope it’s less eventful than today’s brouhaha.   

How about you? Do you have a poo story? Thinking my next book could quite possible be about the brown stuff!

 

Blobs

So in the middle of my super relaxing massage yesterday, I got my period. Embarrassing? Not really. I've already suffered the most embarrassing menstrual moment known to man, so I took it all in my stride.

It happened in the mid-eighties. I was in a Catholic church, with my first serious boyfriend, Paul, his dad and his two brothers. I was thinking blasphemous thoughts during the first hymn, when the lady behind me tapped me on the shoulder and whispered in my ear, “I think you’ve got your period”.

Oh my God! OH MY GOD! (oops, sorry God). Shit, shit, bloody shit! Why here? Why now? I think my face went redder than the stain on the back of my white A-line skirt! Yes, WHITE!

What do I do? What the bloody hell do I do? I’m in the third row of an unfamiliar church, my boyfriend’s mum at home preparing breakfast, with no female support, surrounded by men, and my backside resembles a Japanese flag! This must be the work of the Catholic Church! They are punishing me for the blasphemous thoughts I had during that first hymn!

I whispered my situation into Paul’s ear and a plan was hatched. We’d tell his dad I wasn’t feeling well, then the next time the congregation stood, we’d make a swift exit, Paul walking very closely behind me.

Everyone stood, and we ran out the door, me in tears, vowing never to return to a Catholic Church again.

The skirt was washed and the stain removed but the embarrassment lived on. On Monday morning at work, my boss asked if I was ok after Sunday. Curious, I asked what she meant. It turns out she was sitting in the back row at the same service and could see the infamous red blotch from her vantage point – I can’t imagine how many others witnessed my period making its grand entrance!

This is an excerpt from my soon-to-be-released book on all things vagina. Coming to an e-Book store likety-split!